


Somnium

by celli



Category: Alias
Genre: Dreamfic, F/M, M/M, imaginary sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-02
Updated: 2002-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:50:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/pseuds/celli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somnium

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: All of S1.
> 
> Thanks to Kat and Gail for the **amazing** beta and the IPC for stalking, mocking, and two hours of title searching in the middle of the night. And thanks to Thorne for the wallpaper.
> 
> This is for Thorne, of course. :) Happy birthday! It's late--but look at the wrapping it's in!

_Somnium (Latin): a dream, fancy; foolish nonsense_

* * *

When I joined the CIA, they were clear on their policies regarding...ah...alternative lifestyles. "We're not required to be fair, Mr. Weiss," a dark-haired man in an expensive suit said to me. "You will deal on a daily basis with the kind of sensitive material that can destroy thousands and millions of lives. If there is anything in your personal life that can be used to blackmail you or draw your attention from national security, it will be found and used against you."

He stopped as his cell phone rang. "Yes, Mother. No, I'm in the middle of an interview right now. No, have I forgotten yet? Sunday at three." He glared at me as I struggled not to smirk. " _Anyway,_ " he said severely. "As a matter of public record, your personal life is your own. In reality, make sure any and all of your relationships are safe. And don't even think about dating anyone--male or female--within the Company." His face softened a little. "It's a bad idea anyway, sleeping with someone you work with. You're better off with a civilian."

Obviously this guy had his own issues. But I took his little speech to heart. I'm a Company man, and if that means I put national security above my love life, so be it.

But my dreams are my own. Were my own, before my best friend walked into them.

* * *

In my dream, we were sitting on Mike's couch arguing hockey tactics when he kissed me. Just like that. One minute, it's high-sticking, the next, his tongue is in my mouth. And goddamn, could he kiss. At one point, he bit down on my lip, and I kept rubbing it the next day. It _felt_ sore.

* * *

I remember that he tasted like Miller beer. His brand. I got hooked on Keystone in college--it tastes like shit, but it's cheap--but after that dream I started stocking my fridge with MGD. Mike congratulated me. "You've finally developed some decent taste, Weiss!"

* * *

It was a good thing I was stocked up on beer, because work started getting more stressful. I got to know Director Devlin a little too well. No matter how hard I tried, I kept getting sucked into the Bristow operation. And we were good at it, Mike and me. We kept SD-6 on its toes...and it was even sweeter because they didn't have a clue.

Lots of late night strategy sessions. Usually at my apartment, with Alice calling every hour on the hour to see if Mike was heading home yet. Mike started bringing his own beer and keeping an extra suit in my closet for all-nighters.

* * *

In my dream, we were sitting on my couch arguing about FTL ("how can they be a threat to us when they sound like they should be delivering Mother's Day bouquets?") before we finally decided to crash for the night. Except when I crawled into bed, there was already a warm body in there. A tall, lean, naked warm body.

And nothing happened. We both fell asleep. In my _dream_.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

* * *

I know I sound like I worship at the Altar o'Vaughn. Not so. Mike's got issues. And by that I mean he's halfway to nuts in certain areas. Obviously. "I'll break into the

 _Vatican_ with you"--? For Christ's sake!

But until recently he was always kind of a surface guy, y'know? He looked like the dashing secret agent, and God knows he's smart enough to pull it off. But he just kind of drifted along as a lower-level handler...flitted in and out of my office every day...wandered in and out of girlfriends (and you can take that any way you want). He was there. He was just kind of vague.

In the last few months he's un-vagued in a big way. The guy who'd never had to question his priorities--I'm not even sure he had them--suddenly had an agenda. Agent Bristow.

* * *

In my dream, I woke up, rolled over, and bumped into something.

"Umph. Mike?"

"Shh. Don't move." And he started to touch me.

He ran his hands over my entire body, hair to heels and back again. Just his hands. When his fingers got to the small of my back, and again when he traced the line of my hipbone with the back of his hand, I tried to ask him what he was doing. But he just said "Shh" and kept going.

Out of all of it--I don't know why--I remember most clearly how hot his breath was on my shoulder when he ran his fingers down my neck.

* * *

"Eric, are you okay?" he asked the next day.

"Huh?"

"Your hands are shaking and you keep rubbing your neck."

"Huh?"

"Do you have a headache?"

"Hu--I guess. Slept like crap last night."

He dug in his desk drawer for a minute. "I've got Excedrin."

"For those Handler Headaches?"

He grinned. "You bet." He offered the bottle.

I just stared down at the bottle and the hand holding it. He had such long fingers...

"Weiss, what the hell?"

"Huh? Oh!" Christ, out loud? What was I thinking? "I was just comparing. I have these stubby short-ass fingers."

"They're not that short." He laid his free hand next to mine. All the blood left my head.

"Urgh..." Yes, that is exactly the sound I made. I grabbed the Excedrin. "Let me find something to wash these down with." Battery acid, hemlock... I went flying out of that office (in the most subtle way possible), and I didn't go near it for about three days. Never mind that it was next door to mine.

* * *

In my dream, Mike and I were standing in the Rose Garden next to the Olympic Coliseum. It's a popular place to get married--maybe the way the smog drifts over from the freeway is photogenic, I don't know. Anyway, Mike and I were in tuxes; he was pacing and I had my yo-yo out. Then Sydney was there, in a white dress and no shoes. She had one bare foot on top of a wriggling snake, and the other on top of her father's head.

* * *

When I told Mike about that one, he gave me a very speculative look and said something about too much Catholic school warping a child's mind.

I didn't say anything. And Mike didn't comment when I started buying Keystone again.

* * *

That was followed by the usual assortment of freaky dreams where Mike and I were talking...or playing basketball...or at work...and he was missing major pieces of clothing. I particularly liked the one that replayed a boring staff meeting from the same day, just with Mike stark naked throughout. It made the staff meeting the next day a little...interesting, but I could handle that.

* * *

Then, apparently, my subconscious decided that the shock value of naked Vaughn dreams had worn off and upped the dosage.

* * *

In my dream, we were walking down Riverside Drive in Toluca Lake. I could see the street sign.

Mike was next to me, wearing the denim jacket my mom stole from my closet and gave to Goodwill my junior year of high school. He was carrying a rabbit in one arm. The rabbit was purring.

We stopped in front of an Irish pub-looking place. There was a leather sofa on the sidewalk in front of it. A chicken was sitting on one end, reading the _Playboy_ with Miss America 1984 on the cover.

Mike shaded his eyes and looked up at the sky. "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"Tsunami!" someone yelled--it's entirely possible it was the chicken. I didn't even have time to turn around before the wall of water lifted me off my feet.

The next thing I knew, I was on my stomach, spitting out water and pieces of _Playboy_. The chicken and Mike's rabbit walked past us and crossed the street.

I stared at Mike, waiting to hear what he had to say about this.

"Where did the couch come from?" he asked.

"Um? Ethan Allen, I think."

"Oh."

* * *

Okay, and the scarier part? I had driven down that street maybe once in my life, but the pub is just where I dreamed it was. I took Mike there for lunch and a 49ers game one Sunday. He would not shut _up_ about Sydney.

I had a chicken sandwich.

* * *

I was reviewing surveillance data with Mike one day--my first assignment with the Company was as a peek geek--when I noticed that there was a picture on his desk again. "You got a new significant other and didn't tell me?" I aimed for a you-devil-you tone and kept my eyes on the back of that frame. If he'd met someone new and _hadn't_ told me...well, he just wouldn't. Maybe he'd decided to put Alice's picture back up and torture himself some more. Maybe his mom had won out and gotten him to pose for a family pic with his stepdad. It couldn't be you-know-who, unless he had completely lost his mind.

He turned the picture around and I thought my head would float off with relief. It was that damned dog of his.

"Donovan?" He--the dog, not Mike--was curled up inside a computer monitor box, with just his head sticking out and his ears reaching for the sky. "Hey, dog-in-a-box."

Mike laughed. "Well, I thought he deserved a place of honor. Let's face it, with the way my love life's been lately, the only fun I have in bed is when Donovan climbs in and starts licking my toes."

* * *

Please--and I'm begging here--don't ask me what I dreamed about that night.

* * *

After Rambo-Vaughn went dashing off to SD-6 and saved the day--well, you-know-who helped--there was some quiet jubilation at the office, followed by some _serious_ fuckin' drinking at the bar that weekend. After three--four--uh, several rounds, I found myself in a quiet booth next to Donna.

Technically, Donna is a general assistant and dogsbody to all the junior officers on our floor. But since the SD-6 case heated up, Donna (equipped with the highest assistant clearance) has spent more and more time working on projects for Vaughn, and the rest of us have gotten to know the typing pool rather well. In fact, I once saw two juniors nearly come to blows over the phone-answering services of a brunette named Tanya. The girl says "Welcome to the Central Intelligence Agency" and you automatically give her your credit card number.

Donna and I stared at each other for a minute. Then she leaned forward until I could smell the rum on her breath. "I didn't take the call, you know."

"What?"

"When Agent Vaughn called from the--the bank. I would never have let it get routed to Haladki."

"Of course not." You have to be careful with drunk women--they're a little scary--but I reached over and sort of tapped the top of her hand a couple times. "Donna, you're not that dumb."

She giggled.

"And you're the one who told me Vaughn had called," I said. "You saved the day anyway."

"Mr. Vaughn did."

I snickered. "No. You-know-who did. As usual." I took a long swig of my beer.

"You mean Jane Bond?" Donna ducked as half my swig came flying back out at her.

I was still sputtering with laughter as I mopped up the table. "I can't believe you called her that."

"Well? I'm sure she's really nice and all, but she's not perfect."

I looked over to where Mike was nursing a scotch and looking rumpled and pensive. "To you and me, maybe. Hang on a sec."

I slid in next to Mike and slapped him on the arm. "Hey. Stop brooding."

"I'm not brooding."

"Dude. I can _hear_ your forehead wrinkling."

He lifted a hand to his head automatically. "Huh?"

Some unholy impulse made me poke at him. "See? Wrinkle. Wrinkle. Wrin--"

"Stop it!" He slapped at my hand, laughing for the first time that night. Our fingers tangled for a quick second. I pulled my hand away. His eyes didn't even flicker.

"Look, I think Donna's ready to go. I'm gonna take her home."

He narrowed his eyes. "To her house."

"Yes, to her house."

"Then you're going to _your_ place."

"Relax, Vaughn, I'm not going to ravish your assistant." Christ. I got up. "And stop brooding!"

"...not brooding!" I heard as I walked away.

* * *

"Are you sure you're okay to drive?" Donna asked as we waited for the valet to bring my car around.

"Oh, yeah." I have a pretty high tolerance for alcohol--all those late night strategy sessions only helped that--plus, the little non-moment with Mike had seriously sobered me up.

"I appreciate you taking me home."

"No problem."

"Mr. Weiss?"

I looked down.

She kissed me.

Oh.

It took me much longer than it should have to stop kissing her back. The only thing that got me away from her was the sudden conviction that Mike was watching from the window.

I pulled back, smiled weakly, and snuck a look at the window. No one was standing there.

* * *

Did I sleep with her? No.

Should I have? Probably.

* * *

In my dream, I was having sex.

Let me correct that, and add the appropriate language.

In my dream, I was being fucked.

It started with hands on my shoulders, rolling me over. My pillow was a little scratchy and smelled like sweat.

Those same hands--his hands--smoothed their way down my back. Then my boxers came off, seemingly by themselves.

Then Mike was on top of me. "Eric," he said into my ear as he trapped his hands between my chest and the sheets. They inched slowly down to my waist and fucking _stopped_ there.

"Mike!"

He slid his hands around and down to the _outside_ of my thighs. I was so tangled in the sheets I couldn't reach his hands, and every time I tried to shift under him he just laughed and held me still by applying his mouth in new and interesting ways to my neck, my shoulders, my back...

My fingers were digging into the mattress. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears and Mike's breath right behind me. Then finally--finally!--one hand wrapped around my cock and the other settled almost gently on my ass.

I bit down hard on my lip at the new rush of sensation. It was a relief to have him touch me, but at the same time it was more torture. Much more torture. I felt his breath on my ear, and then he was telling me in graphic detail what he wanted to do to me and with me--and I mean graphic, with words you wouldn't think Mike knew--while his hands did what his mouth promised.

After a couple of eternities, he pulled back enough to let me get up on my knees. I tried to brace myself and relax at the same time--and when his cock entered me, I had to groan.

His body was arched over me. My hips rocked back into him. I knew I wouldn't last long, and I tried to tell him.

His free arm wrapped around my chest as we both came. I collapsed onto the bed. Mike was still mostly on top of me. Just before the dream faded, I felt his forehead drop into the curve of my neck.

* * *

The morning after I had that dream the first time, I wandered into the bathroom and made astonished faces at myself in the mirror. Then I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the unopened containers that hold lube and condoms. Then I made a very pathetic noise.

That's why it's called fantasy, Weiss.

* * *

In my dream, I walked into what we like to call a "reception area" and your classic spy novel calls an "interrogation room."

Mike was sitting in one of the chairs, wearing black jeans, a dark green T-shirt, and--oh yeah--handcuffs.

He tugged on the cuff. It scraped up and down the arm of the chair. "Weiss! Eric, man, get this _off_ me!"

"What the hell is going on?" The key was on a table by the "mirror." I grabbed it and ran to him. My tie kept falling in front of me when I tried to unlock the cuffs; finally Mike grabbed it and held it out of the way.

"Thanks," I said as the cuff came free. "Now are you gonna tell me why--urgh--" Mike had wrapped his fist in my tie and _pulled_ , until it was choking me. I looked him in the face for the first time and realized that something was seriously wrong. His pupils had expanded 'til the black took over his eyes completely.

"Shit," I whispered. Mike leaned into me (God god god those _eyes_!) and started laughing.

"You have no idea, Agent Weiss." He stood up, pulling me with him by the tie until he was practically supporting my weight. "You have no fucking idea what I'm capable of. Do you?" He threw me backward until I collided with the mirror. " _Do_ you?"

He pressed into me until we were practically inside the mirror, and I realized to my absolute mortification that I wasn't scared, I was turned on. I shifted my head, hoping that Mike wouldn't read it in my eyes.

For a second, as my cheek pressed against the glass, I could see through it into the field ops room. Jack Bristow was standing there, loading a handgun.

I opened my mouth to say something to him, but Mike's hand came up to grab my chin, and the glass went dark.

"Eric," he was saying. "Eric?" I looked up. His eyes were still black, but something in them was Mike again. "What are they doing to me? I--Eric, you gotta help me."

He let go of my chin, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the mirror change again. Now Sydney Bristow was standing next to her father. He handed her the gun. She raised it and fired.

I must have screamed. I shoved at Mike until he was on my other side, away from the Bristows. I heard the crash as the bullet crossed through the mirror, braced myself--

\--and woke up. Every muscle in my body was tense. My throat was raw. And I was still half-hard.

I stared at my feet while I put the dream together in my mind, noting in passing that while I'd fallen asleep in my clothes again, somehow I'd managed to work my socks half off during the dream. Some very strange part of me was amused by this.

Finally I flopped back on the bed and said the only word that could adequately describe my emotions at the moment.

"Fuuuuck!"

* * *

I was sitting at my desk the next day, working on my Request for Transfer Form (CIA-T-179), when Mike just about broke down my door in his enthusiasm.

"We're going on a mission!" he practically yelled.

"I hope it's not a secret one."

"What? Oh." He dropped into a chair in front of me and lowered his voice. Not that it matters, because while he nattered on about ampule this and Khasinau that, I just stared at him.

"I can't go," I finally said.

Mike, who was halfway through a breathless account of how he had made contact with the bad guys all by his very own self, broke off and gaped at me.

"Look, Vaughn, I can't do it. I'm not a field agent. You're not a field agent. This is--"

"I don't want you in the field," Mike said. "I want you working surveillance and running the op. This is your thing."

And it would look good on my record. Almost as good as the puppy-dog eyes he was aiming my way. I pushed the T-179 a little farther away. "And what will you be doing if I'm running the op?"

He looked away from me.

"Vaughn--"

"Eric." He grabbed my wrist. "I need your help."

Shit. I sighed. "You owe me _so_ badly for this," I said thickly.

He grinned and bounded out of his chair. "I owe you everything and a beer, Weiss." And he was out the door again. I could practically feel the air rushing by me as he went.

I sighed again and stuck the T-179 in a drawer.

* * *

In my dream, Vaughn left Sark in Denpasar to go rescue you-know-who--yeah, 'cause Spy Barbie is such a damsel in distress--snuck up on Dixon, and then logic played out instead of dumb luck. The trained field agent got the drop on the inexperienced kid and shot him.

* * *

I should not have taken the blame for Denpasar. Everyone knows about Vaughn's True Love anyway. All I did was raise questions about myself, which is the last thing I need.

Which is why I'm not sorry, not at all, for kicking Mike's ass later. He deserved it on levels he doesn't even know about.

* * *

Mike left. I...we fought, and...

He just left.

His keys were in my mailbox when I got home, with a note. "Donovan? Half a can. Sorry. Vaughn."

Sorry? Christ.

Then came the six calls on my voice mail while I was in the shower. Both Bristows missing. Haladki dead. Property missing from the evidence room. Could I come in right away? And had I heard from Agent Vaughn?

It's two in the morning. I think. I just got back from the office. There's nothing else we can do until someone makes contact. Nothing but wonder how we got fucked over by all of our own people. If I hadn't reported him, I'd be under suspicion myself.

Of course, if I hadn't reported him, maybe he would've talked to me, and he wouldn't be God knows where doing God knows what he's not qualified for and...

And this has been going around and around in my head since I got out of the shower. Along with a lot more panic and freaking and guilt and anger and...everything.

I got ready for bed. And now I'm sitting on top of the covers. Donovan is curled up next to me, looking very lost.

No sleeping tonight. I might dream.


End file.
